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All other rights revert to author upon publication.

Mel BrakE Press has a liberal submission policy, and will accept poetry manuscripts (not books) for its next publication cycle, the Spring of 2018.

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We only accept submissions via email for collection of poems. Please send no more than 3-5 pages of poetry as an email attachment using standard MS format. We do not accept epic manuscripts:10 pages or more will be rejected.

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Thursday, July 26, 2012

A Poetry Collection of NATHANIEL S. ROUNDS

MEL BRAKE PRESS is honored to present poetry collection of Nathaniel S. Rounds

DXing to Green, Green Grass
A one act dramedy in pantomime
Written on the back of a falling star
That was crushed and cut into a
Livery collar for Christ’s homeless and forgotten.
(Approximate time: 1/125 sec)
Exposition: John Bristling had no business driving a car, or filling a
Jerry can with gasoline at the corner gas on Commercial Street,
Or placing it in the passenger seat before pulling out from the self serve,
Only to turn his ’68 Plymouth Fury III
Into a burning inferno.
His phizog transformed from cornflower blue eye shadow, tweaked and
Darkened moustache and audible breath like a drip coffee machine sighing
Water vapour and air, to moth balls in jacket pockets, and vague smell of poop
On index finger, then converted to conformist malaise,
Finally settling upon a cheap, chicken hot dog split and burnt with bubbling
Ick and way too much mustard, smoke, and ash.
His body remained motionless when the burning vehicle hit a power pole.
He was alert for a moment,
But curiously did not feel pain. He felt peace, a happy end note.
He had desisted from sin and left behind
All sleepless nights,
Inexplicable dreams,
Untreated symptoms of a psychoneurotic
Mind and its myriad obsessive
And hysterical symptoms.
What was the principle cause of his demise?
Insomnia induced through shift work?
Or the three burning fondue pots that shared company with the jerry can?
The explosion had been marked by his biting into a bright, red apple, the crunch
Replaced by a BOOM.
The remains were interred in harmony with Bristling’s written instructions:
His body, sans heart, was wrapped in a buffalo plaid blanket, and left in a tree
In the Arthur E. Bezanson Centennial Park.
His heart was placed in a jar of bread and butter
Pickles and left behind Berwick Building Supplies.
The knave took flight in a coach-of-four
We shan’t hear of him anymore.
Bristling’s friend, Palti son of Ralph,
Expressed extreme displeasure over the tree chosen for the body.
He removed the body by moonlight and moved it to a grade primary classroom,
“To further the education of young, impressionable minds.”
He left the body with a
Turkey carving instruction manual and twenty pairs of safety scissors.
His actions coming to the attention of the RCMP,
Palti was arrested and held on a five hundred dollar bond,
But not before he recovered the jar and ate the rest of the pickles.
We may take comfort in the grand felicitation that awaits him
Upon his return to a world made anew.
In Recover'd Paradise,
Cats shall not scratch him and rub flees into his ankles.
Recycling will not be such torment.
Every sock shall have a twin.
The entire iceberg of his unsettled affairs
Will rise from the arctic waters of contemporary society and
Manifest itself, leaving only the imagination to the imagination, and only
In the most pleasant sense, like the smell of laundry drying on the line in earliest
Autumn, imparting pleasant counterpoint to the smell of burning wood fire.

So Much Glass to So Much Steel

Behind a clear, glass veil
Facing a snarling, spitting sea
And the dim shadow of Georges Island
I spent nine dollars
From Mother’s retirement cheque
On gelato down at the bay
Birra Moretti in a coffee cup
And for a frat boy twist
Greek fries with chopsticks

Outside this farmer’s market
A distant cousin with payot and a suit of sky-by-night
Nods his head and fedora in a courtly fashion
To the bag boy and his toil

And the train enters and do-si-dos
With kindred spirit trains
To the strain of whistles blown
For dream time
Leisure Time for the Dispossessed

She is painting nails with
Disappearing ink
Robert writes love letters
In the blood of innocents
Eddie draws pictures of the F├╝hrer
Over maps of Israel and Jordan
Mother projects Bible scripture
Over walls painted Band-aid colour
The girl on the twenty-third floor
Is screaming mock protest in Portuguese
While her man smokes Hollywood cigarettes
And Chinese noodles and boiled crab flesh
Invoke hunger through air vents and cracked ceiling
And the ground way down below
Yields to this building of a hundred rented homes
Like a lonely child
To an enemy soldier

A reformed photographer born in Wichita Falls, Texas, Nathaniel S. Rounds writes from Halifax, Nova Scotia.

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